


This Unacceptable Heat

by lifelesslyndsey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Knotting, M/M, Secretary - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/lifelesslyndsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Novak is a jerk.  A captial H-O-T hot ass jerk. </p><p>He's also Sam's boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Unacceptable Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SassyBlindFicExchange2012 on tumblr, and more specifically for passiveaggressivekurwa
> 
> Original Prompt:  
> "Omega-verse. Knotting. Mpreg is good, but no explicit birth scenes if you head that route. If you don’t, that’s okay too, but I love me some knotting and slutty omegas. I don’t care about the configuration of who tops. I don’t care about who is omega and who is alpha."
> 
>  
> 
> Not currently beta'd, and all mistakes are mine.

**THIS UNNACEPTABLE HEAT.**

 

 

 

 

Mr. Novak is a jerk.

 

A Capital H-O-T hot ass _jerk_.

 

He was, of course, a lot of other things. Like a dick, and an ass hole, and a bastard, and also, probably most importantly, he was Sam's boss.

 

And a jerk. Did Sam mention that Mr. Novak was a jerk? Yeah. Because he was.

 

But Sam dealt with it. With the exception of Mr. Novak, his job could have been worse. Sure, it wasn't the publishing position he'd dreamed of in college, but such things had to be attained one rung-on-the-ladder at the time. Sam was totally willing to climb that ladder. He was a hard worker, dedicated, smart. And he'd dealt with hot-head alphas all his life. Mr. Novak was just one more jerk in a long line of jerks, but just because Sam was an omega did not mean he was going to roll over and show his belly like a little bitch.

 

He might have been a personal assistant, but Sam was _not_ a little bitch.

 

No matter how Mr. Novak treated him.

 

He set his carefully stacked pile of folders on the corner of Mr. Novak desk wordlessly, each one tabbed with color-coordinated post-its, and re-edited by him personally for any (several) mistakes the proof-readers might have missed. Sam was just super helpful like that.

 

“Tardiness is unacceptable, Mr. Winchester.”

 

Sam let his eyes wander to the industrial black clock hanging on the wall over Mr. Novak desk. “It's eight o'clock, Mr. Novak.” Like the jerk didn't know it. Sam wasn't even actually scheduled to come in till eight thirty, but he always came in at seven-thirty so that he would be best prepared for the day and Mr. Novak's _shit_.

 

Mr. Novak looked up at him then, blue eyes narrowing. “I asked for these folders first thing this morning.”

 

“Which is in half an hour,” Sam replied, tight but congenial. He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that tomorrow was the first day of his blissful vacation, one solid week of paid time off he received quarterly. Considering he worked six and seven day work weeks, and ten and twelve hour shifts, it was hardly a consolation prize. “My shift doesn't start until eight-thirty.”

 

Mr. Novak blinked at him once before his mouth went tight. “You come in at seven-thirty every morning. Unauthorized over time is unacceptable, Mr. Winchester. I don't appreciate you abusing---”

 

Clenching his teeth tighter, Sam bit back a growl. Unauthorized over-time! Sam had so much _mandated_ over-time, he barely had time for unauthorized over time! He barely had time to sleep! “I assure you Mr. Novak, that isn't a problem. I never clock in before eight-thirty. Payroll can confirm, I'm sure.”

 

Mr. Novak blinked at him again, frowning. “Very well. You're dismissed.” He paused, pulling the stack of folders close, and opening the first one. “A coffee would have been nice.”

 

Twitching, Sam nodded, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

 

“Not from the break room.” Novak added, staring at the paper work before him over the top of his glasses.

 

“Starbucks?” Sam ventured, but he knew better. Really, he did. Why did he bother?

 

As expected, Mr. Novak gave him a scathing look of unrepentant disgust. “Excuse me, Mr. Winchester? Am I wearing skinny jeans and listening to emo music on my I-pod while typing frantically away on my mac-book in a public setting, legs shoved up under some shoddy Ikea cafe table? No. Because I am not a _hipster_ , Mr. Winchester. Unacceptable. Triple Americano from the cafe on Fourth and Washington, please.”

 

Some how, Mr. Novak made the word _'please'_ come out like _'you fucking idiot'_.

 

Smiling so wide his face hurt, Sam simply nodded. “Of course, Mr. Novak.” He hoped his tone purveyed that _'Of course'_ really meant _'Why don't you try and pull that stick out of your ass while I'm gone?'_

 

Some how though, he doubted it.

 

Sam bought Mr. Novak his Americano from the nearest Starbucks and used the rest of the time it would have taken him to go to the cafe on Fourth and Washington to get a filthy blow job from the hipster barista with the double tongue piercings.

 

Mr. Novak aside, it was a pretty good morning.

 

He dipped into the employee lounge, shoving the paper cup into the microwave for a practiced 45 seconds before dumping it unceremoniously into the thermos he'd purchased specifically for the purpose of keeping Mr. Novak coffee warm in transport, after the man had thrown a fit of epic proportions when his coffee arrived (after the twenty minute cab ride from the cafe to the office) not brain-boiling hot. 

 

He resisted the urge to spit in it. Just barely.

 

One more day, he reminded himself.

 

Setting the thermos on Mr. Novak desk, he took a step back and waited. Mr. Novak took a sip, burning his tongue like he always did, before popping the top off completely, steam billowing from the wide rim. _Enjoy your watered-down hipster coffee, jerk._

 

“That will be all Mr. Winchester.” He took another drink, lashes fluttering. “Please confirm appointments with Harvel, Singer, and that filthy hippy Milton insisted was the next Lovecraft. Garth, something or other.”

 

Sam did as he was told; this part of the job was easy. Sam had a natural way with many of their clientele, his Omega-scent making it easy for them to trust him. He confirmed with all three of the possible clients, even going so far as to check the dates with Mr. Milton, the more congenial of Sam's two bosses, and Mr. Novak partner and co-founder of Right Wing Writing Publishers.

 

The day dragged on, a seemingly endless orchestra of coffee, clients, cancellations, corrections, a brief lunch, and whatever else Mr. Novak thought to throw at him. Six thirty rolled around, the end of an eleven hour shift. He tucked his papers away neatly, leaving a polite but detailed note on his desk for whatever temp they'd hired, including his personal cell phone number and e-mail should she have any difficulties.

 

Grabbing up his messenger bag, he patted the pockets of his dress pants for his keys, wallet, and phone, confirming that they were there. Knocking on Mr. Novak door frame, he spoke quietly. “If that will be all Mr. Novak? I'd like to head home.” The man looked no where near to finishing, but that was usual. Sam sometimes wondered if he was a robot. The man couldn't possibly have any kind of life at all. Which was a pity because Sam was sure a good lay could do him wonders.

 

Mr. Novak glanced at the clock and blinked in surprise. “Hmm. If you must. I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester.”

 

Sam was to eager to get home to stop and correct the man.

 

*

 

Sam did not like going into Heat. Oh sure, there were happily mated omega's out there, who reveled in the total abandonment of their wits and senses, joyously handing over the brain-reigns to their cock. Sam is all for sex. Hello, he's an omega _male;_ sexually, he just has way more options then the average guy, and every single one of them feels awesome. Knotting, knotted; doesn't matter to him. 

 

During Heat, it was different. It was desperate, and dirty, and demanding. Sam was not a bitch, but when it came to Heat, he wanted to be  _fucked,_ and he wants to _fuck_ and if he can possibly do both at the same time, well shit, he's in heaven. For hours. Possibly days. While he was all for occasionally taking or giving a knot for the fun of it, when it came to Heat...it wasn't a a matter of a thirty-minute post-coital make out session while they waited for the knot to recede. 

 

Heat's are intense on both the Omega and their partner; it's not just like he sticks his ass in the air and hopes to God some one knots him, or simply shoving his knot in a hole and fucking away. No, it makes him double the slut come Heat. Omega's in heat are absolutely vicious, shaming even the most temperamental Alpha's on a good day. He became a rude, demanding, needy, sex-starved bastard when he's in heat. 

 

Basically, he became Mr. Novak, but with more boners and less coffee.

 

It's the curse of an Omega; the glory of a knot and self lubrication. 

 

There is a reason Sam only has four a year.

 

He's on suppressants of course. There would be more if he wasn't, eight, ten, even twelve (mated Omega's go into heat monthly). There are suppressants out now that can stop a heat for a years time, but Sam has heard the horror stories about coming off them, like ten Heat's slamming into you at once. It's not worth it to him thank you, he'll take his suffering in doses. They're too new, and the possibility of unknown side-effects scares the shit out of Sam.

 

So he sticks with the tried-and-true quarterly-heat suppressants, and goes into heat once every three months and it's intense. More intense, he assumes, then a monthly heat. Heat coils in his belly, and the desperate itch of need settles at the base of his spine just thinking about it. This heat will be worse then usual. He'll be spending it _alone_. Mr. Novak has been riding his ass so hard (and doesn't that spring to mind a delicious and awkward picture), he hasn't had time to procure himself a willing Alpha or Beta he trusts enough to spend a week in bed with. His tried-and-true beta fuck-buddy was out of town, and couldn't rebook. Sam had planned on searching out another, but he just hadn't had the time.

 

It's going to suck. And it's all Mr. Novak fault.

 

Today is the first day of his heat. It won't be as bad as tomorrow. Today suppressants still lingered in his system, but by tomorrow, his body will have flushed them clean. He's hot already, sweat beading at his temples and the back of his neck. He's anxious too, cock hard and trapped in his jeans. The urge is not so demanding yet that he can't ignore it. And he will ignore it, for as long as he can, if just to prevent himself from jerking his cock raw.

 

He fights it as long as he can, till it hurts and he can't breath. That night, he fucks himself down on the biggest dildo he owns, before coming all over his pillows, not-quite sated and till terribly hard. When he wakes, he's humping down against his mattress, dildo still deep in his ass. He's wet, but not quite wet enough. The Omega hormones produce just enough natural lubricants to keep knotting from hurting, but that's it.

 

Sam prefers lots of lube, likes it so squelching wet he fan feel it dripping down his thighs. Still, he's too far gone to care that he's just on the painful side of dry, as he clenches his hole in a desperate attempt to pull the fake cock deeper. It's useless, and he cries out in frustration, reaching back to push it in hard and fast, ramming it against his prostate with brutal force. His cock aches, precome soaking the sheets beneath him. It's not enough, not a knot, but it feels so good, Sam groans, open and loud.

 

Suddenly a shrill beep fills his room, his work phone he recognizes vaguely, as he hurls the I-Phone across the room without a single care. He's on _vacation,_ dammit _._

 

He even ignores his cell phone. 

 

But when his land-line rings, shrill and grating, he can't ignore it. The only person who ever calls his land-line is his brother. And he knows that this is a Heat week, and would not bother him unless it was an emergency. Panic fills him, doing nothing to quell his hard cock, as he stumbles, from the bed, tow here the cordless sits atop his dresser.

 

“Dean. Hey, hello. Hi. What?” It comes out in a jumbled, panting mess. His dick bumps up against the brass knob of the dresser, cold against his heated flesh, and he gasps. Clearing his throat, he coughs lightly. “Um. What is it? Is everything alright?” He cups his dick to his stomach, if only to keep it in check. Damn thing has a mind of it's own.

 

“Mr. Winchester?” It his not his brother on the other end of the line. Sam is going to kill some one.

 

“Mr. Novak. Was there something you needed? I'm on vacation.” He can't keep the snipping, pissy tone out of his voice. He's on _vacation_.

 

Mr. Novak, in typical asshole style, wastes no time jumping to the point. “I need you to come in immediately. You're temp walked out in the middle of her shift, and left the entire place in chaos. I've been forced to cancel three appointments today, and send two to Gabriel! Everything is a mess. Papers are not where they should be, files are out of order. There are no sticky notes! What the hell am I suppose to do without a color-system? This is unacceptable!”

 

 _What ever the hell you did before I came around_ , he thinks bitterly, as the color-system was all Sam's idea. He slaps his head against the nearest wall, and the motion dislodges the dildo still shoved up his ass. It falls out with a wet squelch and a dull thump, leaving him open and aching, and not a little irritable.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Nothing,” he snaps, kicking the purple silicon cock aside. His hole twitches mournfully. “Alright. Where should these files and papers be, if not where they are?” The sooner he gets this shit done, the sooner he can get back to fucking himself stupid. Is that so much to ask?

 

There's a pause, long enough to echo. “On my desk?” It comes out like a question.

 

 _Are you kidding me_ , Sam thinks. “Okay. One, the files do not live on your desk. They do not, in fact, belong there. I bring them there. Which means they come from somewhere else. What the hell did you think, they magically appeared?”

 

Mr. Novak is aghast, Sam just knows it. He can actually imagine the offended expression his boss is making. It makes his dick twitch and his knot throb, and hey, Sam has never claimed to be a mentally healthy person. “Excuse me Mr. Winchester, but you cannot talk to me that way---”

 

“Va-ca-tion!” Sam barks out, as lubricant leaks down his thighs. He's squeezing his cock so hard it should hurt, but instead it just makes heat pool angrily in his gut. “I am on my vacation. My scheduled vacation that I scheduled. The files and papers are in the cabinets by my desk, organized by alphabetically by genre, author, and then book. I am sure that you, in all your infinite wisdom and glory, can manage to navigate an alphabetically organized cabinet, Mr. Novak. As for post-its. I have post-it's in my desk, a whole cacophony of rainbow colored post its and if you touch them, I will fucking cut you. Because frankly, I spend a lot of money on fucking post-it's. Like, a lot. That shit is not comped.”

 

“Mr. Winchester!”

 

“NO!” Sam all but roars, hips thrusting forward as he fucks into his fist. He would never, ever thing to talk to his boss like this, but for fucks sake, he's in heat. He can't physically help it. If he's not getting fucked or fucking, he's not a happy omega. And thanks to Mr. Novak, he's not getting fucked or fucking, so he'll be as pissy as he pleases, thank you. “No! If you need help, call Ruby at Mr. Milton's office.”

 

'I don't think—'

 

“I do,” Sam insists firmly, falling back onto the bed with a thumb. “She's number six on the speed dial. She knows where everything is.” She use to be Mr. Novak P.A., but he highly doubts his boss remembers that much. Mr. Milton had rescued her from Mr. Novak fierce reign before Sam was hired. He's still kind of hoping some devastatingly attractive man will come and steal him too. Maybe Mr. Morgan in accounting. Hell, he'd even take Becky in editing, and that girl is like, super scary.

 

“Mr. Winchester!” Mr. Novak roars, growls vibrating through his voice. And oh God, Sam's going to come. “You will come in and do your job, or you will no longer have one.”

 

Sam is furious. “You can't do that! It's in my contract! One week, every three months. It's scheduled! Mr. Novak----”

 

“Sam” Mr. Novak voice takes on a tone that Sam, as an Omega, just cannot resist. It's a rich, deep rumble. It's also a little bit desperate, and Sam finds that he likes that, his name strung out in a growl. “Please. I don't need Ms. Cortese. I need you.” And that...not matter how he means it, Sam likes the sound of _that_. He likes it so much so that he comes silently all over his stomach, biting his lip so hard he tastes blood.

 

Apparently, he's lost his fucking mind, blown it straight out of his dick. “Fine,” Sam snaps, clenching his teeth as the muscles of his stomach jump and twitch with the aftershocks of his orgasm. “Just let me grab a shower, and get dressed---”

 

“Unacceptable.” Mr. Novak tone loses it's desperation. Sam rolls his eyes. “I don't care what you wear. Just get here _now_.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Sam doesn't shower, leaving the come on his stomach to cool and dry. He throws an admittedly nice t-shirt on with a pair of jeans that have seen better days but do wonder for his ass. It's better then the fucking khaki’s and yellow polo's he wears at the office, at any rate. He pairs them with a pair of floppy leather sandals. He smells like sweat, and sex, and Heat, and he knows it. But Mr. Novak wants him there now, and apparently, what Mr. Novak wants, he gets.

 

And Sam is going to be the one to give it to him.

 

When he arrives, he knows without a doubt that every Beta, Omega, and Alpha on the block can smell him. The humans can't, but they don't need too. Their reactions are instinctual, hearts, pounding, mouths falling open, breath shortening. He's one big walking pheromone, should be home in bed fucking himself stupid, but he's not. He's here, making his way as calm as he can to Mr. Novak's office on the twenty-seventh floor.

 

The elevator ride is almost enough to make him come again. Three beta's and a human, and every single one of them are wet for him. One of the beta's, a male, looks like he could come in his pants at the proximity of Sam. It's heady, the scent of them and the high he gets from the power-play alone. Pre-come wells at the tip of his cock, soaking through the front of his jeans in a noticeable stain. They aren't what he wants though; he wants an Alpha. And he knows just where to find one, too.

 

The lobby of Mr. Novak's office is empty of clients, but behind Sam's desk is a frantic looking Ruby The relief on her face when she sees him vanishes in a snap as soon as he's within scenting-distance. Ruby is staring at him with wide eyes and nostrils flared. She's a beta, and his heat is enough knock her silent the second he's within scent distance.

 

“Which particular file is Mr. Novak having such difficulty locating?” His voice is rough with arousal and sheer want. He knows there's a distinct possibility he'll run into Mr. Milton -another alpha- but at this point, he doesn't care. He's pretty sure Mr. Milton would welcome him shamelessly into his office, anyway. If things don't pan out with Mr. Novak, at least he has a back-up.

 

“Sam,” Ruby says, her voice soothing and calm. Pointlessly soothing and calm. “You can't go in there.”

 

Sam gives her a feral smile. “It's as easy as opening the door.” He leans his hip against the desk and pushes the red intercom button on his phone. “Mr. Novak, which files did you say were missing?”

 

“ _Finally, some one competent. The Harvel files,”_ he growls, but the relief in Mr. Novak voice is almost palpable. Competent. In Novak-speak, that's pretty much a commendation. Sam preens a little, but no one can judge him. An Alpha is praising him, after all.

 

Sam clicks the intercom off and growls to himself. Fucking Harvel files. “I left those on his desk last night,” he tells Ruby, who's still giving him a wide-eyed look, while not so subtly cringing against the edge of the desk. He could fuck her; she'd let him knot her. But it isn't what he wants, so he pushes the thought away (it isn’t' easy; she smells awesome). “Which means they're probably sitting on his fucking desk, where I left them.” Either that or the ass-hole took them home and forgot about them. Which is why Sam always keeps back-ups. In triplicate hard-copy, two flash-drives and on his personal computer. God-forbid Mr. Novak not have his fucking files.

 

“Sam,” Ruby says, grabbing his arm. She pulls her hand back almost instantly, probably shocked by the heat of his skin. He's in Full-Heat. The highest peak, a peak he might add, that will probably last two-to-three days. “You can't go in there like that! Are you crazy? Of course you are. You just want a knot! Or to knot!” She flushes; knotting is a no-no subject with an Omega, generally speaking. You never know who you might offend by making assumptions. Luckily, Sam's the type who wants it _all_.

 

Unabashedly, Sam agrees. “You're not wrong. And you know what? I bought one. It's big and purple and lying on my floor where I dropped it when Mr. Novak called and demanded I come in on my contractual, scheduled time off.” Contractual; it's in his freaking contract!

 

Ruby bites her lip, eyes flashing towards the door. She's mated, has been since she came into her heat. She's never had to go it alone, and she can't sympathize. She's heard the stories though, and subconsciously, Sam knows she probably aches at the idea of not being with her mate during a heat. “Look,” she says, slow and sure. “Why don't I take these to Mr. Novak, and you go visit Gabriel? I'm sure he'd be happy to---”

 

It's a perfectly sound idea, one that probably won't get him fired, but no. No, Sam wants Mr. Novak. He wants to fuck him up. Fuck him up so bad the poor man won't be able to look him in the eye ever again. Of course, if Mr. Novak was adamantly against it, Sam would pull himself away. Rejection is a sour scent, not at all one conductive to fucking. Should his boss turn his snobby nose up to Sam like he would a cup of hipster-coffee, Sam will gladly carry his ass to Gabriel, and proceed to get fucked as loudly as possible. But Sam suspects that Mr. Novak will want it. Hell, he probably needs it as bad as Sam.

 

“No,” Sam says, a smirk painted across his face. “No, Mr. Novak was absolutely adamant that I come _now_. And I intend to.”

 

She laughs, knows he can't be persuaded otherwise. Omega's are stubborn to a fault. “Smells like you already did.”

 

“Oh I'm sure I've got a few more in me.” He tucked the files against his chest, and that’s when the scent hits him. It's heady and rich and smells like Texas sun and warm leather. Gabriel.

 

It's distracting, to say the least. Because as much as Sam wants to fuck Mr. Novak seven ways to Sunday, there is a perfectly viable Alpha not ten feet away, fists clenching and nostrils flaring. It's distracting.

 

Gabriel looks like he wants it, eyes bright as they skip-skitter over every single inch of Sam, come-stains and all. But his gaze flickers to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Novak office door, and he grins. “Fuckin' get it, kiddo.”

 

So Sam does.

 

Mr. Novak has his phone pressed to his ear with one hand, the other hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. The files he requested are as Sam assumed, sitting in a neat pile on the corner of Mr. Novak desk, beneath a messy stack of papers Sam had nothing to do with.

 

“No, absolutely not. Unacceptable. Because it's in his contract. Tell Mr. Wesson if he backs out, Right Wing will drag his sorry ass to court. I'm running a business here, not----” Mr. Novak's words are cut short when Sam reaches over and tugs the phone out of his hand.

 

Bringing it to his ear, he clears his throat. “Hi, this is Sam Winchester, Mr. Novak's personal assistant. Please let your client know he is fully welcome to file a request for a third-time extension, but at a costly compensation out of his final pay-packet. All of which I am Mr. Wesson knows, as he's already filed for the two free extensions Right Wing offers it's authors. I understand that deadlines can be hard, but no one told Mr. Wesson he had to take up writing as a career.

 

Mr. Novak however chose publishing, a career he has manages to excel at, when his authors aren't trying to pinch him for free time. I assure you, Right Wing publishing house has been _more_ than generous with your client, but we're running a business, not UNICEF. Have a nice day.” He hits the END CALL button and tosses the phone into the fake ficus pot behind Mr. Collin's desk. “The Harvel files,” he says, gracelessly upending the messy stack of papers onto the floor to reveal the color-coded folders beneath. “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Novak?”

 

Mr. Novak bright blue eyes are pinned on him, dark lashes painting shadows down his stubbly cheek. “You're in heat, Mr. Winchester.” It isn't a question. Sam's peaking, and it's brought on twice as fast in the presence if a viable Alpha. Two if you want to get technical; Sam can still smell Gabriel. He's pretty sure Mr. Morgan would drop by the office too, if called. Sam's got options and his body knows it.

 

Sam's eyes lock into his, shamelessly staring. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mr. Novak's nostrils flair, and he grips the back of his computer chair with violent force. The leather rips with a ' _pop_ ' beneath his nails, exposing the yellow foam. “You should be home.”

 

Snorting, Sam nods slowly, leaning towards his boss on the other side of the desk, and splaying his hands out across the paper-strewn top. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mr. Novak swallows, and Sam follows a bead of sweat as it races down his throat. “You should...you should return home, Mr. Winchester.” It's the first time Sam's ever heard his firm voice falter. “I apologize for bringing you out in your....condition.”

 

Sam can smell it, and it's certainly not the smell of rejection. Hell, Ruby can probably smell it outside the door, and her nose has never been all that great. Mr. Novak _wants_ him; his arousal is almost as heady as Sam's own. It fills the room and threatens to suffocate him in the sweetest way possible. It's delicious torture; makes his mouth water and his dick twitch.

 

Sam straightens up, as if he's going to leave. He has no intentions of heading for the door, of course. “If that's all you need.” He turns and heads for the door.

 

Mr. Novak hesitates for half a second, his whole body jerking towards Sam. Sam can see it in the reflection of the fancy one-way frosted glass walls lining Mr. Novak office. “Perhaps...perhaps you should take some one with you. To see you home safely.” His mouth is curled up into a snarl, teeth bared like something feral.

 

Sam stops, his hand curled over the door knob. It's startling cool against his heated palms. Looking back, he flashes his boss a grin. “I'm not going home, Mr. Novak.”

 

“Oh.” Mr. Novak eyes flutter down, over and across his messy desk. “Did I...pull you away from someone?” His nostrils flair for only half a second, but Sam can smell the faint hint of jealousy. “I wasn't aware you were seeing any one.”

 

 _Interesting_.

 

“I don't have time for any one but you, Mr. Novak.” It comes out like the line it's meant to be, flirty and leading. “But no, you didn't pull me away from anyone. I'd intended to see myself through this heat. Lucky me though; as I was coming in, I ran into Mr. Milton.”

 

“Gabriel is a very busy man,” Mr. Novak snaps, his whole body vibrating with need. It's all Sam can do not to shove the poor man into the chair and mount him. “He has clients.”

 

“Your clients,” Sam volleys back.“Isn't that right? But you have your files now, so I can only assume Mr. Milton schedule is clear.” Letting his hand slip from the door knob, Sam turns, and presses his back against the door. “Will that be all, Mr. Novak? I'm sure you have a full schedule ahead of you.” This is the out. If Mr. Novak asks him to stay, Sam's taking it as consent.

 

 

Mr. Novak shoves his chair aside and leans over his desk. “Actually,” he says lightly, as he tips the neat stack of Harvel files to the floor. “My schedule is surprisingly clear.”

 

Sam doesn't bother with any sarcastic rejoinders. Instead, he peels his shirt off as he crosses the office, dropping it on top of the pile of papers. His mouth is on Mr. Novak before another word can be said. He licks his way past any possible witty retort, past any possible demand.

 

Mr. Novak's hands are as firm as his words, pushing and pulling at Sam in a way that is both desperate and controlled at once. He pushes at Sam's shoulder, but Sam won't budge. As much as he'd love to take it, bent over expensive mahogany, he has different plans in mind.

 

“No,” Sam growls, biting his bosses mouths sharply. Mr. Novak eyes flash, natural instinct to do as he wishes warring against his inclinations to please the Omega.

 

He leans back, and looks up at Sam, wordless and expectant. He's clearly humoring Sam, knows Omega's are demanding when they want something, and it's best just to give Sam what he wants.

 

What he wants is to fuck Mr. Novak till the man can't think straight.

 

It takes a special kind of Alpha to let an Omega do this. There aren't many who would stoop so low as to be dominated. Sam thinks that Mr. Novak is going to give him whatever he wants. Because if he doesn't, Sam will leave, and Mr. Novak clearly doesn't want that.

 

Sam grabs Mr. Novak collar and rips his shirt open, scattering buttons across the office. His boss has a spare in the small closet off the en-suit bathroom, not that Sam cares. The motion surprises Mr. Novak, that much is clear. He lets the expensive material slither to the floor as Sam works his belt open. That goes flying over Sam's shoulder; the heavy buckle hits the wall just as Mr. Novak pants hit the floor.

 

Mr. Novak goes commando. “I wouldn't have taken you for the type,” Sam comments, dancing his fingertip down his bosses cock. Mr. Novak twitches, and makes a noise in the back of his throat. It's clear he's not sure where to go from here; there's no protocol to follow when fucking your secretary, after all.

 

“Mr. Winchester.” He's growing impatient; it's a tone Sam is far too familiar with.

 

Sam circles his fingers around the Alpha's cock. “You can call me Sam.”

 

“You can call me Mr. Novak,” the Alpha grunts in reply, head falling back. Sam laughs; _kinky bastard_. “What do you want?”

 

Sam grabs Mr. Novak hips, and spins him, so that he's up against the desk now. Pushing at his back, he forced the Alpha belly down across the messy papers. The phone is knocked off in the process, as is the stapler and the pen cup and the name plate and whatever else Mr. Novak kept. They add to the growing pile of things on the floor, though neither Mr. Novak nor Sam notice.

 

Sam crawls up his body, barely pausing to admire the hard muscle and thin line of wiry hair making a trail from his navel to his cock. It's all very lovely but Sam needs to knot; nothing else seems all that important, in comparison.

 

He gets right on him, presses his swollen dick up against the small of Mr. Novak's back, so close he can breath the words right into his ear. “I want to fuck you.”

 

“What?” Mr. Novak jerks violent beneath him, but he doesn't smell resistant. It isn't in struggle, it's in surprise. “Mr. Winchester---”

 

“Sam,” he corrects, nipping Mr. Novak's jaw sharply. The man seems impossibly tiny beneath him like this. “And you're going to let me.”

 

“ _Sam_.” Plaintive. Pleading. Sam works a hand up under his belly, and grips at his dick. Mr. Novak is hard enough to pound nails, the base of his dick already starting to swell. Sam decides right then that he's not going to let Mr. Novak come when he fucks him.

 

Because really, he's an Omega in heat. He wants to fuck _and_ get fucked.

 

Mr. Novak's going to give him both. “Fuck,” Mr. Novak cries, arching into Sam. “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Yeah, that's right,” he says, cocky and sure as he fucks his dick between Mr. Novak's ass cheeks, the head of his cock skating across his hole. “I'm going to knot you, I'm going to make you fucking scream, just like you make me want to scream. But I'm not going to let you come. I'm not going to let you blow your load, Mr. Novak. Do you know why?”

 

“Perhaps you have a new found desire to find yourself fired, Mr. Winchester!” Mr. Novak snarls, and Sam hisses when he sees his bosses nails elongate, sharp talons carving lines into the wood of the desk. It's...not many can do it, can shift. The feral gene is mostly dormant now, leaving them with no outward characteristics, save for the knot and the self-lubrication. And those who _can_ don't; it's not considered polite for company. It certainly answers a few questions as to why Mr. Novak is so damn repressed, so damn snappy. Sam's never seen so much as a hint of canine from Mr. Novak, had no idea what his boss was capable off. Mr. Novak's got a beast under his skin.

 

It's...it's fucking hot, is what it is. Sam feels like his brain shots for a second, hips stuttering against Mr. Novak's ass. Sam wonders if his teeth are showing, if he could bite Sam right now and make him bleed. He has to force himself to stop humping his boss, because he's going to blow his load if he doesn't, it's just to fucking much.

 

“No,” Sam hisses, getting his hands on Mr. Novak's jaw, and jerking his head to the side so he can see his face. Sure enough, Mr. Novak's canines are biting into his plump bottom lip. “No,” he says again, almost panting. “No I'm not gonna to let you come because I'm gonna let you fuck me.”

 

Mr. Novak whines, a broken, needy sound that rips from the back of his throat. He drops his head down to the desk, angling his ass up like a slutty omega and not the Alpha he is. It does dirtybadwrong things to Sam's brain, to have an Alpha, a feral Alpha, submitting beneath him.

 

Sam's going to fuck that _so hard._

 

He reaches between his own legs, gathering his bodies offering onto his fingers. He's soaked, dripping down his legs, thighs shiny with it. He smears it down the crack of Mr. Novak's ass, fingers probing at his hole. He's not as tight as Sam would have expected.

 

“Mr. Novak,” he growls, pushing one finger, and then two in, with almost no resistance. “I'm learning all kinds of secrets about you.”

 

Mr. Novak just growls, and it's not a human sound. It's an Alpha sound that makes Sam whine, makes Sam want to roll over and show his belly. He pushes past it, and pushing a cruel third finger into his boss.

 

The prep is fast, and hard, and wet, and no where near enough for what Sam has planned. But he can't wait, he needs his dick in there _now_. Mr. Novak's ass gives to him slowly, his own slick greasing the way, and Sam doesn't stop till he's bottomed out, knot pushing at the rim.

 

“Mr. Winchester,” Novak says between his sharp teeth. “It would be in your best interest, not to mention your job security, for you to fuck me _this instant_.” He's using his boss-voice and Sam can't even handle it. His dick throbs, knot swelling fractionally. He's not going to last long, but that hardly matters. He's in Heat. Refract time is like zero to sixty.

 

Still, Sam does as he's told, drawing all the way out and slamming back in. God, Mr. Novak's body is a furnace of heat, and he's working with Sam, curling his body in just the right way. Every thrust forces a grunt or a growl out of Mr. Novak's mouth. There not words, no Mr. Novak is beyond words now, and it's new, it's a novelty. Sam likes that he can shut his boss up, render him to base needs, just a needy, feral thing, slippery with sweat beneath him.

 

Sam licks at the sweat on Mr. Novak's, likes the salt on his tongue. Mr. Novak pushes into it, a silent plea for more, and Sam gives, Sam fucks and he gives, sinking his teeth into the tendon there, where shoulder meets neck.

 

Mr. Novak's whole body goes on lock, arching back so hard against Sam, he nearly bucks him off. It sets in motion the inevitable. Sam forces himself deeper inside, grinding his cock in tight circles as Mr. Novak shudders. He almost doesn't catch it, Mr. Novak's orgasm, but he gets a hand around his bosses dick just in time, circling his fingers tight around the base, just above the knot.

 

And that, that if nothing else, is what does it. Mr. Novak's reaction is violent. He bucks hard against Sam, pushing his ass back as he tries to free himself from Sam's hand. It's futile, but it tears Sam's orgasm out of him with violent force, knot ballooning so fast it makes him dizzy, makes the rooms spin.

 

Mr. Novak growls as Sam comes down from the initial haze, his dick still pouring come into his boss with violent little bursts, mini nova orgasms wracking his body.

 

“I need to come,” he demands, just like he demands files, and coffee, and lunch, and Swedish massage appointments. “Now, Mr. Winchester!”

 

Sam laughs, and grinds into him, his fingers still making a tight, restricting circle around Mr. Novak's dick. “No,” he says simply, the smile evident in his voice. “I don't think so; you get to stay like this. We've got....oh, half an our at the least like this. Probably an hour; I was _really_ worked up.”

 

Mr. Novak throws back his head, knocking into Sam's mouth. His lips splits, the tangy taste of blood bursting on his tongue. “Mr. Winchester,” Mr. Novak says dangerous. “When we unknot---”

 

“I'm going to flip you over and ride you like a fucking bull,” Sam tells him, with no room for argument. Not that Mr. Novak would tell him no; its in no ones interest to argue with an Omega in heat after all.

 

Mr. Novak makes a noise, and pushes back on Sam's dick like a filthy little slut. “That's acceptable, I suppose,” he grunts, fingers still clawing into the mahogany desk top.

 

-End.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
